


"One . . . "

by Wolfscub



Category: British Actor RPF, tom hiddleston actor
Genre: D/s, Erotica, F/M, Fluff, Suggested Caning, dom!Tom, dominant Tom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-01
Updated: 2014-12-01
Packaged: 2018-02-27 17:28:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2701280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolfscub/pseuds/Wolfscub
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>NSFW</p>
<p>Mature Audiences Only</p>
<p>Just something stoopid inspired by the pic</p>
    </blockquote>





	"One . . . "

**Author's Note:**

> NSFW
> 
> Mature Audiences Only
> 
> Just something stoopid inspired by the pic

[](http://s1008.photobucket.com/user/phillyloo/media/intense_zps9852eb72.png.html)

 

"What did you just say to me, babygirl?" Tom asked in an almost casual, conversational tone that was deceptively gentle.

I immediately began to fidget under that intense stare and repeated what I had said, but with considerable less conviction than the first time, my butt already tingling in warning at that tilted head look, shaking my own head with much less emphasis than I had before. 

"No." At least I'd managed to keep the truly tentative, pleading edge out of it, but that wasn't much of a victory, really.

He moved but just a bit, just enough to cross his arms across his chest and lean one muscular shoulder against the door jamb, his eyes leaving mine - just once - to travel slowly up and down me, from the curls on the top of my head to toes that were gripping the carpet nervously, as if they were going to help keep me in place if he decided to move me - lingering hungrily at various bare inches in between.

And then he did nothing but lower his chin a bit and narrow those startlingly blue eyes of his at me and wait. Someone who didn't know him as I did might say he was being patient, but - fortunately or unfortunately - I knew him much better than that.

Tom was still in his tux - hadn't even undone his bowtie yet as I stood there, so vulnerably nude, both sets of cheeks already hot and flushed, nipples painfully peaked. I had to ruthlessly suppress the desire to cross my legs against the flow of my own dew from between those legs as he stared at me, every one of his dark desires reflected in the depths of his piercing gaze.

And I knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he would remain there as long as he needed to - as long as he _wanted_ to, anyway - and that he could do so much more comfortably than I could, since he was in better shape than I was _ever_ going to be in in this lifetime.

After what was probably only a few short moments but seemed like an eternity, and during which I was constantly expecting that he was going to reach out one of those big hands of his to lace those fingers around my wrist to tug me forcefully into our bedroom, I decided to acquiesce.

As if I had a _choice_.

If the ticcing muscle in his jaw was any indication at all - and I had certainly had enough personal experience that told me that it was - he wasn't far from making me regret that I had even so much as _thought_ about defying him.

But I had to save face, so I acted put upon, tsking loudly as I passed him as if he had asked me to do something completely odious rather than merely to lie down on my back on our bed.

I knew that defying him was stupid, but sometimes I literally just couldn't _help_ it. Something in me . . . took offense, somehow, at how easy I always made it for him to completely conquer me and I was unable to stop myself from trying to rectify that situation - to my own detriment.

_Every, single_ time.

He would _never_ allow my disobedience to pass unnoticed - or unaddressed - and it was almost as if I needed to goad him into proving that to me occasionally.

He'd never failed me, and, deep inside, I knew he never would.

So, of course he couldn't allow met to get by him unscathed, and I both yelped and scooted a few steps ahead - hoping to avoid more such painful attentions - as his strong, flat palm connected loudly with my backside.

"Bring me the cane," he ordered in a no-nonsense tone as he made the necessary arrangements on the end of the bed, "then assume the position."

I didn't really like this Tom - he was so much more austere, so much stricter and more . . . removed from me, emotionally, than he was ninety-nine percent of the time. There would be no cajoling, no praise, no encouraging pats and definitely no soothing rubbing of my very sore behind.

This was NoNonsense!Tom.

This was SomberandRigid!Tom.

This was the only Tom that made the bottom drop out of my stomach, who made me ride the edge of a wave of fear that he carefully cultivated within me.

With no small amount of trepidation, I handed him the cane that hung in plain sight on the wall next to my side of the bed.

As I expected, there was absolutely no forgiveness whatsoever in his eyes when I met them before bending - slowly, and with severe reluctance - over the stack of two of my own pillows that had been piled on top of each other so as to raise my behind and make myself an easier target for the discipline I was about to receive. My hands found their required home above my head, fingers already gathering the bedspread against my tightly fisted palms, head turned so that I could see him, so that my peripheral vision would catch some of the motion of the strokes he delivered before I felt their inevitable, agonizing conclusion as they seared their way across my cringing butt.

I could only see some of him, but enough for my eyes to drink in his tall strength, the graceful line of his shoulders and back, and that sweet butt of his in those well-tailored pants, the mere sight him soothing me somehow - even now.

His tone, however, did anything but as he threatened - no _promised_ , in a deep, throaty growl, "And God forgive you if you move out of position, my lovely. I'll start the count over again, even if I'm on the last stroke."

He would never tell me what magic number of strokes he had in mind, either.

Tom pressed the length of the hefty cane across the peak swell of my cheeks; his signal to me that it was about to begin, and I knew what was expected of me.

Taking a deep, shuddering breath as two hot tears spilled down my face before it had even really begun, I whispered hoarsely, "One," and waited for the worst to befall me as I saw him raise his arm.

And I was far from disappointed.


End file.
